


Sansarella

by ntlpurpolia



Category: A Song of Ice and Fire - George R. R. Martin
Genre: Alternate Universe - Fairy Tale, Cinderella Elements, Petyr is a bastard who should die, Sandor is better than any prince, trigger warning for sexual assault
Language: English
Status: In-Progress
Published: 2016-09-15
Updated: 2016-09-15
Packaged: 2018-01-24 01:51:28
Rating: Teen And Up Audiences
Warnings: Rape/Non-Con, Underage
Chapters: 3
Words: 2,167
Publisher: archiveofourown.org
Story URL: https://archiveofourown.org/works/1587266
Author URL: https://archiveofourown.org/users/ntlpurpolia/pseuds/ntlpurpolia
Summary: <blockquote class="userstuff">
              <p>...In which Sansa is adopted by Littlefinger and her Aunt Lysa after her parents die, Cersei is an (extremely rude and deceptive) fairy godmother, Joffrey is Prince (Not-so) Charming, and of course there has to be a Hound somewhere in the story...</p>
            </blockquote>





	1. Sansa Is 10

**Author's Note:**

> Slightly off-plot from the canon, I know.  
> Sansa is only ten years younger than Sandor.

**PREFACE**

Even at ten years old, Sansa Stark was considered beautiful.

Sometimes, she hated it. If she weren't beautiful, Petyr Baelish wouldn't try to kiss her all the time, or brush against her on purpose sometimes, or pinch her backside or grope her when he was in one of his drunken stupors. If she didn't have good looks, Lysa Arryn wouldn't hate her so much.

But other times she was grateful for it. If she didn't look like her mother, she often feared she'd forget her.

* * *

 "Oh, sweetling," called her stepfather (and constant tormentor). "Could you run down to the market and get some apples?"

"Of course... Father." The word was a lie, and felt so wrong on her lips but she said it anyways. It would do no good to anger him.

Ever the dutiful daughter, she traipsed down the path leading to the market, basket in hand. It was a lovely day, uncannily warm for spring, and she would not let anger at her surrogate parents spoil it. Well, even further than they'd already spoiled it.

Approaching the fruit stand, the small girl opened her mouth to ask the heavily muscled man behind it who had his back to her for apples, when he turned around.

Two things happened at once.

She cried out in fright.

The world blacked out.

* * *

 

"Well, at least you're honest." a gruff voice echoed against her mind's walls, and she blinks the room into view.

"What?" Her voice was scratchy and she swallowed painfully. "What?" she asked again, grateful for the clarity this time.

"Most people will see my scars but none of them have been so fucking honest as you, little bird."

The curse grated harshly against her ears. "Why did you call me that?" She asked.

"Do you always ask this many questions, little bird?" His voice is rude but there's an unexpected gentleness behind them that she wouldn't expect from a man that looks like him, like he'd snap the necks of _little birds_ as a child.

The red-haired girl persisted anyways. "Why did you call me little bird?"

"The bird has talons. I called you that because you're such a pretty little thing and now you're chirping so much too. All those pretty little courtesies your lady mother taught you."

She cut him off, distraught and unsettled. "I don't have a mother. I live with my aunt and my father."

"Littlefinger, is it? Well, he sure as fuck doesn't look at you like you're his daughter. He looks at you like you're his whore." 

She thaughty of what he said to her one time,  _In other circumstances you could've been my daughter._

She flinched away from him. She didn't like him. He unsettled her. She wasn't supposed to but there was something about him that intrigued her, the way the broken shards of a vase call to each other or puzzle pieces long separated try to fit back together.

Like calls to like after all, and they were both shattered, like it or not. Him on the outside, a ruined face, and her on the inside, a mess of scars on her heart.

"How do you know how my father looks at me?"

"I watch you, little bird." Somehow that confession was reassuring. She felt safer. She didn't know why a beast like him looking out for her made her feel secure, but perhaps it was the stark comparison of him, brute force and ugly scars, compared to Littlefinger's mustachios and accents.

"Sansa. My name is Sansa Stark."

"Sansa Stark... You're that wolf bitch's sister, aren't you?"

"Arya? Did you run into Arya? Do you know where she is?" Her heart leapt. She hain't seen her sister in a year, since Arya had run away from home after Winterfell had burned to the ground, and Sansa had been taken by Petyr Baelish and Aunt Lysa.

"Your sister is a real piece of work. Fire in her blood, l that one." There was a grudging respect in his words though, however blunt they might be.

"Do you know where my sister is?" she repeated.

"And why would I tell you that? I may be a scarred dog, but even a hound has brains. Nah, I'll tell you next time I see you. You'd best be going little bird. Your  _father_ -" he said the word with a mocking lilt. "- will be wondering where you've got yourself to."

"I... It was nice talking to you, ser."

"I'm no buggering ser, girl. So don't think me one."

"Why?"

He didn't answer so she turned to go, but he caught her arm and said one last thing. "And stop your incessant chirping, little bird. All your bloody courtesies are just lies wrapped up in silk and Myrish lace. They're pretty, but they're nothing."

As she left, shaken, Sansa thought that maybe her entire life was a pretty lie wrapped up in silk and Myrish lace.

 

 


	2. Sansa Is Still Ten

**Notes for the Chapter:**

> I changed the ages,  
> Sansa's ten  
> Sandor's 20

It's nighttime.

That's never a good thing.

Not when Aunt Lysa is asleep.

Not when her supposed father is out and not back 

(yet)

Not when she lies awake in the suffocating darkness and knowing what's going to happen

Pretending it's Winterfell but she can't because Winterfell wouldn't be this cold not if you have hot springs under your room.

Pretending it's not whiskey that assaults her nose from his breath.

Pretending he doesn't stumble into her room intoxicated and lustful.

Pretending she doesn't' hear the whispers of _Cat Cat Cat_ and fighting the urge to say _not Cat, Sansa Sansa remember that_.

But she never does.

Just pretends .

Pretending won't make it better.

But it won't make it worse.

But she's so sick of the lies, that she thinks honesty is refreshing, brave even. (Not like the knights in the songs

that she's stopped believing once her father's heart stopped beating- it was a knight who killed him when he'd done nothing

to be killed for.)

So sick of the lies that even honesty harsh honesty that comes from a voice raspy like steel against stone is beautiful. 

At least it's real.

* * *

 This time, when he comes, she screams and kicks him between the legs and runs.

She can't be sure if he's running after her, but it doesn't matter. she just ignores it and focuses on the pounding of feet against pavement and heart against rib cage 

Then it hits her. _Where is she going?_

She ignores it. Then she stops to catch her breath.

Mistake after mistake, it seems she is making tonight. 

"Didn't think you could run so far, sweetling. But of course, I always think ahead. Come back."

She wants to yell again, run, fight, shout, but everything is stuck in a never ending frozen nightmare.

And then she decides that while knights don't really exist, perhaps people you've just met the other day who call you by a name you don't quite like and yell at you when you call them  _ser_ do, in fact, exist.

Because the next thing she knows, Petyr Baelish is being pinned to the wall by a large man whose face is half burned away and she thinks that life isn't a song. Songs are life with too much polish and wrapped up in sad melodies and poetry that are still in fact fabrications.

She doesn't realize she's crying till he hands her a kerchief, doesn't see the blood on her face till he wipes it away with surprising tenderness, doesn't feel the cold till he wraps a white cloak around his shoulders.

Seeing her shock, he picks up her and throws her over his shoulder.

She should probably kick him and shout and demand to know where she's being taken but her instincts disagree.

 _Trust him,_ say her instincts, and they're (sometimes) usually right.

Sansa thinks that she should probably start kicking and screaming.

But the fight's gone out of her a long time ago; Petyr made certain of that. Besides, what good does crying do? It won't help anything. She feels for some reason that she's heard those words before, in a dream or a different life.

She closes her eyes and something overwhelms her.

* * *

_Her father's head on a spike. Muffled screams- don't scream, don't let him hear you, you are a wolf of Winterfell. Don't let Joffrey hear you._

_A blond head, source of torment. She moves to push him but a hand holds her back, wipes blood from her face. Looks up to see who her saviour is but the face is y _anked from her sight...__

* * *

And she opens her eyes to stars.

She sees the constellations and there, right there is a wolf.

_Father. Arya. Rickon. Bran. Mother. Robb._

Even Jon and Theon, not official Starks, she misses.

But with a wolf watching over her, how can she be sad or lonely?

She blinks and the wolf turns into a dog.

* * *

 "Sit down, little bird."

She trembles from cold and something else. Fear? He passes her a cup of something hot and she wraps her fingers around it, absorbing its warmth into her frigid hands.

 "Why are you being so nice to me?" She is used to hidden lies.  

"I'm not kind. I'm doing what's right. "

At least he isn't saying he wants to help her, People say they want to help her but they use her.  For her claim, for her money, for anything but what her parents told her she's worth. And what is she worth, really? She's forgotten, with all the self esteem that she lost over the years.

"You're not worthless." he says, grey eyes not impassive for the first time since she's met him, making her feel almost like she can see into his very soul.

(or maybe it's the other way around given what he's just said.)

Then he blinks and the mask goes back on, hard rage.

* * *
    
    
    Dawn was peeking over the horizon in streaks of lilac and orange and rose, sun shining relentlessly as Sansa blinked sleepy eyes.   
    
      
    
    The auburn haired girl dressed quickly, pulling on a blue gown that Petyr had bought her once, saying it brought out the color of her eyes. It would do no good to anger him further.  
    
      
    
    Littlefinger smiled at her, eyes betraying no emotion. She tried not to feel scared. His smiles were always furtively evil.  
    
      
    
    "Good morning, sweetling,"  
    
      
    
    "Good morning, Uncle," I'm not scared.  
    
      
    
    "Do you know what happened last night, Sansa? I can't seem to remember." Menace glittered beneath his otherwise saccharine tone, like the blade of a knife peeking through a ripped sheath.  
    
      
    
    "Well...oh, Uncle, please forgive me! I was being a very foolish girl, and I ran away! I'm sorry, Uncle, ever so sorry... And there was this enormous man, all scarred and he frightened me so! He tried to grab me, but you pulled out a sword and he ran away."  
    
      
    
    "Oh, but of course I forgive you, sweetling. You're only young, you didn't know what you were doing." He bought her lies, when coupled with tear filled eyes, and a quivering pout.  
    
      
    
    On the contrary, thought Sansa, I know exactly what I'm doing. I'm lying. It's not only you can lie well.

 


	3. Sansa is 11

**Notes for the Chapter:**

> It's been ages, but I'm back!

She is eleven when everything starts happening all at once.

(Like the time the Stark siblings piled up enough snow to make an enormous snowball only to have it slip away and tumble downhill. But no- that is a different girl a thousand years past.)

Aunt Lysa corners her on a balcony. And Petyr pushes her aunt off.

("I saw you kissing him! He's mine! You're just like your mother, you brat. Cat teased him too, but she never loved him - not the way I do! You're not going to ruin this for me-"- and Petyr pushes her off - "Come quick, my lady wife's has fallen off the edge!"- amid tearful sobs (false like everything else about him) and guards looking sorrowful)

Sansa Stark becomes Alayne Baelish.

("Now, now, sweetling don't cry"- his voice is honey over Valyrian steel that finishes his sentence ( _or I'll beat you and rape you and leave you for the wolves_ )- "But you have to do it. Come along, it'll be a game. You could've been my daughter in other circumstances. I'll be your father, a better one than Ned Stark ever was." - but it's not a  _daughter_ he wants it's a replacement for her mother; no one knows that better than her - "Yes, Father. Of course. I am Alayne. Who else would I be?")

 And Sandor, the hound, the brute that once frightened her so - he becomes her friend.

(She doesn't see the tangle of twisted flesh on his face anymore, which she now knows was put there by "my monster of a brother - he's the monster, and he made me into one," he tells her with a bitter chuckle; Sansa tells him about her family scattered and Winterfell falling and her parents dying and how, sometimes, she'd rather have been dead with them than live with Petyr.)

 


End file.
